


'Til Death

by Glare



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: F/M, M/M, Mentioned Iris Campbell/John Reese, Post S4, With a Reese/Finch endgame
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-23
Updated: 2015-10-23
Packaged: 2018-04-27 16:58:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5056555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Glare/pseuds/Glare
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dinner with Iris takes an unexpected turn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	'Til Death

**Author's Note:**

> I'm working on one-shots instead of my multichapters i'm terrible i'm sorry  
> I'm also sorry for that lame-ass summary i'm so bad at those and there were no acceptable lines from the story to put there like I prefer to do.
> 
> Anyways, thanks for reading!

Dinner was nice. Nothing particularly special, but John had invited her over to his house and cooked, so she marked the evening as a success. It had taken them months to get to the point where he was comfortable enough to allow her into his home; much longer than it had taken her previous boyfriends. She suspected it had something to do with the mysterious past he’d still told her only so little about.

“I didn’t know you could cook,” Iris says, tucked into his side on the worn couch in his living area. The television is on but neither of them have paid it much attention so far, choosing instead to bask in the comfort of simply being close. Rain patters against the windows, adding to the warm, cozy atmosphere of the room. Safe and together while the storm raged around them.

“I used to cook all the time,” he replies, taking sudden interest in the infomercial flashing across the screen. “Haven’t had much motivation to, recently. Not since…”

She’s inadvertently managed to find a sore subject, something not uncommon in her conversations with John. He has a lot of sore subjects to find. “The death in your family?”

“Yes.”

She hums thoughtfully, trying to picture John bustling about in his little kitchen, relatives chattering animatedly at the table. Maybe a niece or nephew getting under his feet as he works, trying to help. “Am I ever going to meet them? Your relatives? You’ve mentioned them once or twice in out sessions, vaguely, but you never talk about them otherwise.”

“Things are… complicated… with us right now.”

“Ok,” Iris murmurs, and they lapse back into silence. She wants to ask more, maybe the names of those nieces and nephews she can see clambering over the furniture in her mind, but John seems to be lost in his thoughts. Iris contents herself to her own, eyes on but not really watching the television.

It’s quiet for some time, until a sharp rapping at the door drags them from their reverie.

John rises quickly, and Iris watches when his empty hands twitch, no doubt wishing for one of the firearms he kept so close. They’re locked in a gun safe in his bedroom, now—one of the conditions of coming over for dinner. She knows he doesn’t like going without, a dependence fostered by years of god only knows what, but she thought it would be good for him to start separating himself from them. Now John just looks uncomfortably tense as he edges closer to the door, taking a steak knife from their dinner plates on the table as he passes. There’s another round of urgent knocks and John throws the door open, prepared to leap at the slightest provocation.

The couple on the other side of the door don’t appear particularly threatening, however. A man and a woman, both damp from the rain. The dog at their side wags its tail happily at the sight of John.

“Harold? Root?” John asks, shoulders slumping as the tension bleeds from his frame. “What the hell are you doing here?”

John steps aside, letting them into the apartment and closing the door behind them. The man John had called Harold is carrying a briefcase in his free hand, which he sets on the table, pushing dishes around in the process of making space. His hat goes atop it, revealing a shock of brown hair that sticks up at all angles. The woman, Root, is wearing pajamas and eyeing Iris with a decidedly unimpressed expression. John has disappeared into the bathroom.

He returns with a stack of fluffy, white towels, one of the few indulgences Iris has noticed in his apartment. He passes them out, keeping one for himself and kneeling to take it to the dog, whose tongue lolls as John scrubs the rain from its fur.

“Harold?” John asks again, looking up from his work.

Harold is hesitant to answer. He refuses to meet John’s eyes, gaze fixed firmly in the middle distance when he finally says, “Samaritan found the subway, John.”

Iris doesn’t know what that means, but the reaction it draws from John is immediate. He’s tense again, a worried scowl she’s all too familiar with settling over his features.

“I guess that explains the pajama party.” The joke falls horribly flat, leaving the room in a tense silence.

Harold is still looking everywhere but at John, visibly steeling himself for something. He draws a long breath and reaches into the inside pocket of his coat, withdrawing a thick, yellow envelope and stiffly offering it to John. Root’s unpleasant expression changes focus, shifting from Iris to the offending envelope.

“I took the liberty of creating new identities for both yourself and Ms. Campbell several weeks ago, in case of something like this.” Harold shuffles his feet anxiously, finally darting his eyes to John and watching him handle the envelope like it might explode at any moment. “When I hired you, I said our little endeavor would only end with both of us dead. We’ve lasted much longer than I expected, however, and I can’t-” Harold appears to be scrambling for the right words.

“I can’t ask you to keep following me. You deserve the chance for a normal life, John. It might not be as John Riley and Iris Campbell, but it’s still a chance. I can’t take that away from you; not after everything we’ve been through. You’ve followed me far enough. It’s time for you to rest.”

With that, Harold seems to have said his piece. He grabs his hat and the briefcase and flees the room with surprising swiftness for a man with his limp, the dog following close at his heels. Root lingers for a moment, watching John stare blankly at the package in his hand. She chews on her lip, clearly fighting the desire to say something, before finally making to follow Harold. The door closing behind her is painfully loud against the quiet.

And then it’s just them, alone again. The tension is still palpable, and though Iris has no real understanding of what has just transpired, she does understand enough to know that it's serious. She doesn’t push for answers like she might in a session, leaving John to his thoughts as he dumps the contents of the envelope into his palm. Passports and driver’s licenses with their faces smiling up at him. John stares at them critically, brow furrowed.

Iris knows what’s going to happen before it does. He looks longingly at the door and then over his shoulder at her, so open and vulnerable, and unspoken question.

“Go,” Iris says softly, because what else can she say?

John pushes himself to his feet vanishes into the bedroom, returning with a black gym bag slung over his shoulder and a gun in his hand.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, dropping a chaste kiss to her forehead and then hurries out the door, leaving their future on the floor where it’d fallen.

\--

The elevator in the building seems agonizingly slow to Harold, keenly aware that each passing second is taking him further and further away from John Reese. There’s a part of him screaming for him to turn back, but he’s doing his best not to listen. It doesn’t matter how much leaving hurts, doesn’t matter that he feels like a part of him has gone missing. John deserves so much more than a life on the run.

Ms. Groves says nothing, not until they’re almost out of the building. Even then, it’s only a terse sentence about getting them a car, and she vanishes out into the deluge. She’s angry with him—that much is obvious. He can’t really blame her. She’s just gotten used to having a family, having people to rely on, and now they’re being stripped from her hands one by one. There’s no sense in reprimanding her for that rage when he feels it bubbling under his own skin. He’s as angry with himself as she is with him. The elevator dings again when headlights pull up in front of the building, but Harold doesn’t look to see who it is. He steps out into the freezing rain, and is halfway to the waiting vehicle when he hears it.

“Finch!”

He spins on the spot, breath catching with surprise. He shouldn’t be hearing _that_ voice, not now. But there’s John, making his way out of the warm sanctuary of the lobby and to Harold, go-bag swinging with every step. Finch finds himself unable to move, unable to do anything that might shatter this wonderful illusion. The freezing rain is forgotten when Reese stops before him, cupping Harold’s face in warm hands and tipping his head until their eyes meet.

“You said when you hired me that this would only end with us dead,” John says over the storm, and then he’s covering Harold’s lips with his own in a chaste, but meaningful kiss. When he pulls away, he says, “Then I guess, Harold, ’til death do us part,” and Harold is helpless against the delighted, hysterical laughter that escapes him.

**Author's Note:**

> In this universe, Shaw is working inside Samaritan as a double-agent and has to give up the subway in order to keep her cover, but calls Finch & Root to warn them before Decima arrives. Because I refuse to believe the writers would be so lazy as to use the "Greer turns John's coworker for revenge" plot device again. 
> 
> Have to admit, I loathe Iris. There is not enough shared screentime in canon to even foster a believable friendship between herself and John, let alone a romantic relationship of the intensity they're trying to force upon them. Not to mention the fact that she's abusing a huge position of power. But anyways...
> 
> Hope you enjoyed it. Had this idea knocking about for a few days, and figured I should get it down while I was feeling motivated.


End file.
